


uphill battles

by triangularium



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Morally Grey Harry Potter, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-28
Updated: 2019-03-28
Packaged: 2019-12-25 18:54:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18267362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/triangularium/pseuds/triangularium
Summary: In a world in which Harry Potter and Tom Riddle attended Hogwarts in the same year but ran in different social circles, a chance encounter at Borgin and Burkes spirals into a quiet, deadly obsession. Tom is everything Harry could ever have wanted -- intelligent, handsome, ambitious, and unexpectedly sensitive. But as Harry falls inexorably into Tom’s orbit, he begins to realize that the perfect facade masks darker impulses than he could ever have imagined. And Harry? He’s hiding some secrets of his own.Or, theYouAU no one asked for.





	uphill battles

Fridays are always the slowest in the week. The antique clocks in their dusty corners tick away the seconds lethargically, their hands gliding through the molasses of a warm afternoon. Tom glances up from the third chapter of a book he’d nicked from one of the shelves, _Design Patterns: Elements of Dark Theory_ , and momentarily notes the shadows of the skulking denizens of Knockturn Alley -- the elderly witch peddling cursed cauldrons across the cobblestone path, the empty-eyed prostitutes framed by the lurid neon of a brothel two buildings down -- beyond the smudged shop windows. His fingers drum in an invisible not-quite-impatient beat on his knees under the counter, something inside him itching, fraying at the seams.

Unbidden, the thought floats into his head again -- _he doesn’t belong here in the gutter, surrounded by the dregs of society_. He’s spent all of his years at Hogwarts struggling to prove himself -- that he, the bastard, half-Muggle son of the Gaunts, the boy-who-never-should-have-survived the first night in the orphanage, undernourished as he was, is worthy of Slytherin’s name. _A shoo-in for the Ministry_ , his classmates had whispered, watching with a mix of fear, jealousy, and grudging admiration as Tom climbed steadily upward both academically and in the Slytherin ranks. None of them knew that this was child’s play; Tom had clawed his way into the world from his first greedy breath, had been born with an endless, shifting hunger for higher, farther, faster, more.

Abraxas’ momentarily confused micro-expression before he’d smoothed it into a cautious neutrality after Tom had confirmed that _yes, he was going to work at “that odd pawnshop”_ and _no, he wouldn’t be immediately diving into the shark-infested seas of politics_ is discarded as quickly as it is remembered. He is here because he is playing the long game. A year sacrificed as he gathers a deeper… _practical_ understanding of experimental magic will be a beneficial investment.

The jingling of the doorbell slices suddenly through the air, and Tom’s eyes flick up, mildly irritated at the distraction but already pasting a polite smile on his face to greet his new guest. It won’t do to give Borgin and Burkes a negative reputation for customer service, after all, even though both Borgin and Burke, he notes uncharitably, deserve the shady association anyway.

“Good day,” he calls as he rounds the corner of the table, hoping to catch a glimpse of the newcomer through the cramped, misaligned cases that litter the room. “Welcome to Borgin and Burkes.” Customers often impulsively touch or brush against dark artifacts, and while Tom knows that nothing that can cause permanent harm is displayed near the door, he also isn’t in the mood to deal with another wizard clutching his decapitated finger, shouting angrily while spraying spittle in his general direction. These people never purchase any items and are generally a waste of time -- not that they could have handled any of the artifacts properly regardless. Dark objects, more than any other types of magically-imbued items, are finicky, demanding a certain respect and control from potential wielders. Tom absently strokes the clouded glass of a crystal ball as he walks past, feels it shudder minutely under his fingers. He could walk unharmed through the store in the dark if he so wanted.

The guest is… small. Delicate, even. Scrawny and ruffled, a head of wild dark hair that he is running his hand through, perhaps in nervousness. This is a man easily made awkward, but his slightly slumped posture and loose robes jar Tom in their scriptedness -- oriented to suggest a carefully structured sense of disarray. Underestimation, then. The lean muscles, unconscious defensive dueling stance -- trust issues, not overtly aggressive but used to protecting others when provoked. He isn’t wearing a uniform but the wand holster and the generally discomfited aura that had followed him in -- probably an Auror? Definitely Light-aligned, comically out of place among the stacks of dark wares housing some of the most heinous works of magic known to wizardkind.

But what is he doing here? Tom’s mind races for a second, considering a Ministry-led crackdown on antique purchases, but he scraps the idea almost immediately because Burke has far too many powerful connections to simply accept restrictions on his business. Could he have come in… simply to buy an artifact?

The man looks up, and the breath leaves Tom’s lungs. For the first time in years, he feels a long-dormant part of himself stir, a serpent’s sibilant hiss in the gloom… _hello_. He quashes it instantly, struggling not to blink or look away from the striking green, the extraordinary eyes nestled like glittering, laughing gemstones in an ordinary face, on a mediocre wizard. They are beautiful, and through the muted haze of envy and a shocked familiarity from somewhere he can’t place, Tom _wants_.

“Hello,” the man says, ducking his head, breaking their eye contact and scratching the back of his neck as though by habit. “Er, so I’m actually looking for something for a friend… do you have any book recommendations? A topic without a really steep learning curve?”

Tom smirks faintly. “We do have an extensive collection, so I’m afraid I’d need more specifics to suggest something appropriate for your needs. However, I will say that an interesting book I’ve been reading lately is _The Subtle Enchantment_. It covers the origin and usage of various legal compulsion, confusion, and mental curses, as well as the art of convincing the target that the embedded idea is their own.”

The man jerks noticeably, and when their eyes meet again, Tom reaches out with his Legilimency, a few tentative tendrils of his awareness grazing surface thoughts -- and runs headfirst into a complicated ball of emotions ranging from disgust to sadness to shame… and delight. The last one is unexpected. Tom retreats to the safety of his own mind and relishes in the prospect of the first real puzzle he’s faced in weeks -- no, months. _Interesting_. He studies the man’s countenance with a renewed curiosity in the context of this discovery.

“Is it okay if I just browse this section for a bit?” he asks, turning his attention to perusing the titles on a shelf nearby. He reaches toward the purple cover, the brightest in a row of almost uniformly matte blacks and blues. Tom realizes nearly too late that the purple carries a nasty flesh-eating curse that can only be disarmed by tracing a set of concentric circles on the spine, and reflexively snatches the man’s hand in midair.

Warm, strangely soft palms, calloused at the tips. Thin-boned, like a bird. How easily he could crush those fingers, bend a joint backward until it screams under the pressure and breaks, shards of bone and blood cracking through skin. How easily he could protect those fingers from harm, encase this boy in the cushioned, bubbly wrap he uses to protect particularly reactive artifacts for transport. Where has he seen him before? The answer burns, resting on the tip of his tongue. He doesn’t understand how those intent, _killing_ eyes never caught his attention before.

“Watch out; many of these books aren’t safe to simply page through.” He drops the hand, pressing lingeringly against the pulse point, feeling it speed up frantically under his touch. “That one guards itself with _Carnem esus_. If I hadn’t stopped you in time, the spell would have left only the bones of your right arm.”

The man freezes, and then the way he holds himself changes so drastically that Tom gets the mental equivalent of whiplash trying to read him. Disgruntled, he wonders if he’s simply out of practice because he’s been spending his days cooped up with little human interaction in an unfrequented shop, turning into something of an antique himself. The man is smiling now, with a hard, challenging edge -- the whisper of knives, electricity humming along power lines.

“Well, I guess it’s a good thing you’re guiding me on my search then, Riddle.” His thankful grin might almost have been sweet had Tom ignored his instincts flagging the bashfulness as affected. _Ah, just Hogwarts then_. The delayed realization annoys him, and then, at the forefront of his memory -- the boy in the distance, Gryffindor red looped around his neck, sun bleaching his hair a soft gold as he tossed his head back and laughed, the boy in the air, pulling up his broom from a nosedive only feet away from the ground before coughing up the golden Snitch… Tom had seen him before but his gaze had always slid past; he had never quite observed. 

Tom observes everyone. This man is not yet an impossibility, but he is treading close.

Under the guise of getting closer to the shelf, he leans into the man’s personal space, feels him exhale a little too shivery to be completely normal. Lemons, the summer tang of butterbeer, and a darker undercurrent he can only describe as midnight. There’s indubitably some sort of sparking chemistry here, and Tom briefly considers extinguishing it just because he can… but why not pursue this? It would be an escape from the boredom plaguing him as of recent.

The man picks out a gray book on Occlumency and mental attacks and a strange wailing black one on wandlore that Tom had never gotten around to reading, partially because he couldn’t stop it from whimpering as it rested in its hands. As the man flips through it, it quietens to a soft, contented purring, and Tom resists the urge to rip the book away from that casual, naive gaze.

He packages these books, and a few others that the man selects, in a small paper bag, feeling that gaze intensify as it lands on him, like a warning prickling on the back of his neck, or a physical touch.

“So,” he hums, ringing up the total to one hundred and twenty galleons, “who’s the mysterious man stealing away some of the best books in this establishment? At this rate, I won’t have anything left to while away the long Friday hours.”

Almond-shaped grassy eyes blink up at him, gold sparkling within their depths, and Tom watches the tense line of his lips tremble with something like laughter and tug into something softer. 

Hook, line.

“Harry Potter,” he replies, and yes, that’s definitely laughter saturating his voice, but it’s not the mean, mocking laughter of the idiot Muggles in the orphanage. It’s the kind of laughter that evokes images of still Sunday mornings, nestled under the fluffy warmth of blankets fresh out of the dryer -- home. “I’m not surprised you didn’t recognize me -- I mean, we didn’t really know each other that well in Hogwarts, after all.”

“Tom Riddle,” Tom layers on the charm, honey clinging to the back of his teeth, “and it’s strange -- under regular circumstances I wouldn’t fail to recognize someone whose beauty commands the attention of the entire room.”

Harry blushes a becoming shade of pink all the way down to his neck and Tom -- Tom seethes in fury because he cannot tell if that is fake or real. There’s something inexplicable about Harry -- what should be a placid, predictable pool to Tom is instead a veneer for riotous waves -- like a storm trapped inside a bottle. Not easy to dismiss at face value. _No matter_ , he thinks.

Harry Potter -- Light wizard, Gryffindor, Quidditch player,... with a concealed interest in the Dark Arts. For there is no way a Potter would step into Knockturn for something as trivial as a birthday present, or a gift for a friend. Potter may try to gloss over it with vague justifications, but he is here looking for answers. And Tom will be the one to unravel all of his secrets.

“Have a good day,” he murmurs as the door closes, the jingling echoes fading. The package under Harry Potter’s arm glows white for a moment, short enough to be explained away as a trick of the light. Despite Potter’s initial guardedness, it had only taken a split second of inattention to transfer a custom addition to the standard charms for weightlessness, stability, and storage.

Sinker.

He’d be back. And if he wasn’t… 

Tom would find his way to him.

**Author's Note:**

> This idea has been gathering dust in my head for a while now, and I'm glad I finally got around to writing it up (even though I have wayyyy too much homework due lol).
> 
> The Wizarding World, looking at Harry: wholesome Gryffindor, will sacrifice himself for the greater good, 10/10 good boi  
> Tom, looking at Harry: apparently being sorted into Gryffindor is the ultimate Slytherin power move. who knew?


End file.
